Testing Ground
by Angelic Fluffle
Summary: This is my testing ground for new stories. I don't need reviews or anything, I'll just be putting them here. Descriptions of each story on profile. Cross My Heart, Hope to Die is currently the only story.


The strangest thing is, she was probably the most devout worshiper of God in the town. It may not have seemed that way, what with her uncomely face and stubbornness, but one look at her eyes during prayer would have erased all doubts. Of course, most people were too disgusted by her face to think of looking at her eyes.  
Her name was a simple, rather pretty thing: Rose. It was the loudly voiced opinion of many that it was too pretty for her. Not that she cared. She spent most of her time growing flowers that she sold at the next town over. The thoughts of the townspeople meant nothing to the flowers.  
As of this moment, she was bending down over a patch of her namesake- a wild tangle of lush red roses. From this angle, most people would not have hesitated to approach her. A long, thin body with a stretched air about it, and curly blonde hair that fell in no particular order or direction. She was dressed in a simple white blouse and a brown skirt. Her feet were notably bare.  
Finally, she chose a flower, carefully slicing it away from its compatriots with a dully glinting knife. When she rose, any person approaching, for directions or otherwise, would have shied away. An ugly purple birthmark was splashed over the left side of her face, marring and distorting her face. Her features, not lovely to begin with, could not be looked at without revulsion. A long, slightly hooked nose, narrow green eyes, and a scattering of mismatched freckles should have at least rendered her bearable. However, the birthmark that stretched over finely shaped lips and one sharp eye, coupled with a high forehead dotted with mauve speckles, drove away most people.  
_(cross my heart)_  
Rose, content to amble around her yard, had no knowledge of the scared and foolish townspeople waving crude weapons and fervently agreeing with a foreign priest as they made their way to her gate, like an cloud of noisy bees. She only noticed them when they crashed through her white wicket fence and surrounded her, calling her a "witch" and a "sorceress". Rose was dragged from her home, leaving behind her crushed garden and torched house.  
There was no trial. The whole affair was rushed, as the foreign priest smoothly convinced the people of her magical heritage. He reminded her of a poisonous frog, with their deceptive appearances and weak bodies. Rose had no idea if he had a grudge against witches or one against her personally, and never found out. She was tied tightly to a wooden cross, arms outstretched and hair chopped short, by the time the sun began to set. Wood was piled high, and a torch was lit. The sky was crimson when the torch was set to the kindling.  
Rose had never been so terrified in her life. They stoned and beat her; she screamed and cried and begged all the while. Her white blouse had turned dark red. Now, she was tied to a cross because of her refusal to confess and repent. He pride was gone, torn to shreds by clumsy torture. She cried freely, calling for help in a hoarse voice. She appealed to the people she'd known all her life, and they turned their backs on her.  
Rose found her fear quickly turning to anger. She warred with herself, but her righteous, God-fearing mind lost to her desperate, angry heart. As she screamed, the rising flames around her turned red. Scarlet flames hissed and crackled harmlessly over her skin for a mere moment before exploding outward with force rarely seen in small towns. Red flames lit up the sky for miles; not even the birds were spared.  
When Rose finally awoke, she was curled up in a blackened wasteland. Houses were sooty piles of ash. Here and there, a gleaming white bone that had survived the blast poked through, but other than that, there was nothing. Shock kept reality from sinking in, but the kind of alertness that comes from twelve hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep could not be easily fooled. She wandered dazedly in the direction of her house, which she quickly found has been in the blast range. A single dog was wandering around the ruins; one half of it was covered in gray ash. The creature's fur was blown to the side.  
After several hours of wandering, Rose finally accepted what had happened. The first thing she did upon realization was fall to her knees and beg for the Lord's forgiveness. Prayers spilled half-formed from her lips, and tears fell just as fast. She wasn't sure if she would ever forgive herself.  
_(hope to die)_  
The church, surprisingly, had survived; unlike the fragile wooden houses from the town, it was made of weathered stone. True, the stained glass windows had shattered and the roof had blown off, but the inside was mostly intact. That was where Rose spent the next few nights, filled with regret and self-loathing. The priest has been right- she was a witch.  
Finally, Rose mustered up the courage to leave the ruins of her town. Infection had begun to fester in several of her wounds, and the pain helped remind her why the townspeople had met their untimely demises. She was sure that there must be someone out there with a good enough heart to help a wretched creature such as herself.  
A quick inventory of her injuries confirmed what Rose already knew: a broken arm, several broken ribs, and multiple cuts all over her body in various stages of infection. Her right shoulder was severely swollen, and she had to painfully pop her dislocated joint back in place. She was sure by now that her face was permanently tear stained.  
The girl slowly changed into a simple set of black robes that the priest had kept in the back room. His greater girth meant she had to use a piece of white (now stained gray) rope to cinch the fabric into a primitive dress. Rose used a pocket knife to cut her hair somewhat evenly. It now sprang out around her head with barely three inches of tight curls.  
Still less than satisfied with her appearance, Rose packed what little food was in the church and saddled up a nervous horse from the church stables. The other two, she set free.  
The horse she had chosen was a gentle gray and white mare with a gray mane. She wasn't in any way the finest or fastest horse in the stables. However, the other two were both hot-tempered and big. The gray mare simply held the title of being their mother and mate, respectively. The name she had been given was Gypsy.  
Rose was forced to ride bareback, as the supplies had burnt to the ground. Not a single brush had survived. Gypsy was quite mild-tempered, and patiently carried out Rose's clumsy attempts at riding. Despite that, it took far longer than it should have to reach the nearest town.  
Fortunately, the doctor assumed that Rose was a victim of the blast, and not its cause. Despite his obvious disgust at her face (the birthmark was widely considered a mark of bad luck), he was just as much of a gossip as the next man, and was eager to hear how it had happened. However, he was quickly disappointed, as her descriptions were vague at best. By the end of the week, his attitude towards her became dismissive, and she was brusquely asked to leave on the eighth day. Rose left on sore legs, wrapped in poorly done bandages and carrying a jar of low-quality ointment.  
_(stick a needle in my eye)_  
Rose passed through three hostile towns before she finally encountered a reason for her aimless wanderings. A toddler had ingested some sort of poisonous plant. The town doctor, an incompetent drunkard, couldn't be bothered to actually expend effort effort on the little boy, and pronounced him dead within a day.  
Rose identified poison and cure almost immediately; she had grown up inundated by knowledge of all these plants. By the end of an hour, the boy was cured.  
Though the boy's family was overjoyed, and invited Rose into their cottage for supper, the rest of the town continued to shoot her suspicious glances. When she was offered a reward for helping the boy, she asked for proper clothes and a cloak that would cover her face. They quickly complied, and Rose was on her way in the morning.  
She continued like this, going from town to town, like a ghost. Rumors began to spread ahead of her in the way small towns always manage. Several towns welcomed her, but still more drove her out as a harbinger of bad luck. Rose wandered a jagged line across the Italian countryside, unknowingly riding closer and closer to Vongola property.  
_(and if in truth)_  
The large, bustling town was a relief to Rose. Nobody gave her a second glance, their eyes brushing over her cloaked figure before moving on. She wandered for a bit, soaking in the sights. However, her troubles started when she tried to get a job. No matter where she went, she was insulted and driven away as soon as they saw her face.  
Rose accumulated bruises and scratches throughout the next three days, until one shopkeeper took the beating too far. She was left unable to walk, tossed in a grimy alley like trash. A couple street urchins laughed at her misfortune, throwing pebbles at her and stealing what little she had. Hot tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over for what seemed like the hundredth time. Her faith in humanity was just barely kept alive by the small acts of kindness she saw, but it was fast fading. The pain of a broken arm continually sliced through her nerves. She could honestly say that she had never hated anything more than she did now.  
_(a lie is found)_  
"Are you all right?" A soft voice surprised Rose early the next morning, and she felt a cool hand lightly rest on her unbroken arm. Rose was unable to respond, her patched throat only letting out a dry rasp. The soft voice spoke to someone, and a cup of water was put to her lips a minute later.  
Rose struggled see her savior, and the good covering her eyes slipped. The blonde flinched, expecting whoever it was to pull away. However, the small hand continued to hold her up and provide water. Rose suspiciously drank it, tilting her head and finally getting a good view of the woman (for, it was most definitely a woman) who had saved her.  
Her savior had long, wavy blond hair- not brownish, like Rose's curls, but a warm, bright gold. Her eyes didn't seem to have any fixed color; gray one moment and green the next. A trick of the light, Rose decided. Her skin and hands were a creamy, smooth peach, untouched by hard work. She wore a simple yet pretty green frock over an off-white gown. All about her was the sparkly air of a do-good noble who didn't really know pain. She probably had no idea of the connotations of Rose's birthmark.  
The woman reached out and touched Rose's other arm. The girl hissed in pain, drawing away sharply. The wavy haired woman gasped and gently pushed up Rose's sleeve, carefully handling the broken bone. More words, and somebody quickly and efficiently straightened her arm out. Rose fainted.  
_(leave me buried underground)_  
When Rose woke again, she was lying in the softest bed she'd ever felt. Mentally, she thought it felt like clouds might feel. Looking around, she saw the blond woman. She was embroidering initials on a small square of white cloth- a handkerchief. Now that Rose wasn't addled by pain, she could see that the woman was no older than herself- seventeen or so. The lady looked up when the bed rustled.  
"How are you feeling?" Her smile was warm and bright. "Does it hurt anywhere? Rose gave a nervous shake of her head, not trusting herself to speak. "That's good! May I ask your name? I'm Elena."  
Rose's mouth opened and closed for a moment before she whispered "...Rose..."  
"It's very nice to meet you, Rose!" Elena was glowing, Rose was sure of it. "That's a very pretty name!" Rose flinched, before remembering that her face was uncovered. Her hands flew up in an attempt to hide her birthmark.  
"Don't look..." She whispered. Elena was surprised.  
"Why not?"  
Rose gave her a look of disbelief through her fingers. Did this woman not see the purple blotch that marred her face? But Elena looked genuinely curious. Rose opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. What could she say? 'I'm a witch and I burnt down my own town when they tried to burn me at the stake'? That would definitely backfire.  
"I... I, um, I..." Rose couldn't seem remember where her words had gone. "I mean... I, uh..."  
Elena seemed to realize that Rose was floundering, and picked up a glass of water that was set up on the bedside table. "Would you like a drink? The ice has melted, but it's still cold."  
"Ice?" Rose asked, surprised. She only ever saw ice in the Winter- and she was positive it was Summer.  
Elena nodded, her sculpted features sporting a light blush. "Papa has it specially ordered."  
"Oh..." Rose murmured, and an awkward silence descended as Rose sipped the water, handling the glass as if it might shatter in her hand. She quickly put it down; the cold made her teeth hurt.  
Elena spoke first. She struck Rose as the type who always had to have a conversation going, her charisma and charm constantly in use. "What happened to you?"  
Rose struggled to find a proper explanation. "Um. The shopkeeper threw me out."  
Again, Elena was naïvely surprised. She probably couldn't imagine impolite shopkeepers; they would never willingly offend her. _After all, she was highborn, rich, and beautiful_, Rose thought bitterly. _Of course they would want to please Elena. _On the other hand, Rose was ugly, and didn't even have the advantage of a quick tongue or a nice body. It wasn't hard to see the difference.  
She spread her fingers out in front of her. Her pinkies both stuck up slightly, a quirk she had inherited from her mother. Her nails were bitten to the quick, and small purple spots overlapped on her right hand. Though her fingers were long, they were scarred and calloused from years of working. Rose peeked over at Elena's hands. Smooth, soft-looking, creamy. They had never seen a day of proper hard work in their life. A couple of random freckles scattered lightly over the back of her hands, and a tiny strawberry birthmark marked her wrist.  
The door opened, and Rose looked upset the commanding man who walked in. Steely gray eyes bored into her own, and she shrank back. Elena, however, bounced from her seat. "Father!"  
_(cross my heart  
hope to die  
stick a needle in my eye  
and if in truth  
a lie is found,  
leave me buried underground)_  
**A/N- Yo, minna! I'm starting a new story! Irresponsible, I know. You love me anyways.  
Though the plot is deviating from the original plot bunny, I hope people like it anyways. ****_Cross My Heart, Hope To Die_**** actually originates from a poem. I'll be using my own personal version that tries to include all of the ones that weren't blatantly made up!  
On a different note, I do not want to deal with the whole "priests cannot marry" thing. Therefore, one of the pipes decided that in order for the bloodlines of the faithful to continue, marriage was allowed. I'll explain it in detail later, I promise.  
Sayonara, minna-chan!  
Fluffle is out!**


End file.
